Bittersweet Wine
by SkinnyLittleSlut
Summary: Neal Caffrey starts to have an emotional breakdown.. can Peter save him in time? SEASON 1 SPOILERS TRIGGER:Self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts Neal whumpage. UNDER CHAPTER RE-WRITE, MINOR CHANGES.
1. Bloody Wine

**Oh god. M'kay. So this was the first fic I ever wrote, and reading it back now made me cringe so damn much. So I'm editing the crap out of it. Enjoy!**

"Neal!"

Neal slowly turned round, concealing the dread that began to fill him. He plastered on his award-winning con-man smile, and fully faced the person who was calling him.

Peter stood in front of Neal, his hands on his hips so his badge was on full view. The agents and Neal had just finished up in the conference room, and everyone else had already gone home.  
"Yes?" Neal asked, frowning slightly.  
Peter shifted uncomfortably, and a silence fell.  
"Good work today." He finally said, breaking the awkward tension that had settled between them.  
Neal nodded, turning to leave, but was stopped by a voice once again.  
"Look Neal. Hughes been all over the department. Breathing down my neck and reviewing us all. And to be honest.. Well, he's not happy with you right now. Lazy, to quote his words. He says you aren't putting in a lot of effort in closing these files, and to be honest Neal... I don't disagree."  
A strange look flashed across Neal's face at his words, gone in a second, but not unnoticed by Peter. He squirmed uncomfortably.  
"I..I understand Peter," Neal replied, frowning slightly again. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to be all cut up by one guy's criticism." he laughed. Peter nodded.  
"Goodnight Neal."  
"Goodnight Peter."  
Neal walked away, leaving Peter staring after him with a nagging worry in the corner of his mind. He shrugged it off, and walked away. El would be waiting for him.

* * *

Back at June's, after discussing Mozzie's plans with Mozzie, to make Mozzie go away, Neal grabbed a bottle of red wine from the counter and let his smile fade away. He slumped down onto the shiny wooden floor, sighed deeply, popped the bottle and took a long swig from it. The wine helped to fog up his mind, which was running through the events of the last few months at top speed.  
_Kate's death, the mysterious phone call, and Peter's criticism.  
Kate's death, the mysterious phone call, and Peter's criticism._

He didn't really care that the words had originated from Hughes; the man was senile, way past his prime. But the fact that Peter agreed.. it stung, it really did.

_You rationalise it like you've been working your ass off these past few months, but you haven't, have you? All caught up in your little word of self-obsession. You're hated for it._

Neal frowned at the thoughts. His self-loathing was usually the result of another bottle of wine and a trigger, but today, it was flowing too easily.

_No wonder Kate died. I bet she was glad to get away from you, your incessant whining. I bet she laughed at the thought of you getting caught and locked up like the animal you are. Her, Mozzie and Alex, you're just a joke to them. And Peter. Especially to Peter. Seeing you on a leash like a dog, being able to track you wherever you go, I bet him and Elizabeth laugh at you._

Neal's forehead wrinkled. He willed the thoughts to go away, taking another swig of wine, and then another. But that just helped.

_She never loved you. She was just using you. That's all you're worth, a joke over a bottle of wine. You've been around 30 years, and you have nothing to show for it. Nobody loves you, no wife, no kids, no job, no education, nothing but a fake history to cover up the weak pathetic excuse for a man that you really are. The only good thing you'll ever do is the day you drop down dead, because if anyone even notices, they'll be glad, and remember the day you did the world a favour and left it, you good for nothing…_

"SHUT UP!" Neal screamed.  
The glass bottle slipped out of his sweaty grasp and fell, unscathed, to the floor.

_You can't even break a glass bottle. _

Neal yelled out in frustration, and punched the bottle as hard as he possibly could.

Glass crunched beneath his fist, blood mixing with the burgundy wine and green bottle shards. And all of a sudden, the voice stopped. Disappeared.

Neal froze, his hand held in front of him.  
When a drop of blood splattered onto the wooden floor, Neal snapped out of his stupor, pulling his arm towards him in order to assess the damage.  
No glass remained in the lacerations adorning his pale skin, and for that Neal was relieved. Pulling out the glass from each wound would require intense focus and concentration, and right now all he wanted to do was collapse into the safe haven on his covers.  
Standing up, Neal staggered into the bathroom, triggering the icy jet to spurt out of the fitting, and held his hand under the flow until the stinging stopped.

Once the water ran clean, he turned the tap off again and dragged himself to bed, his mind racing with questions.


	2. Rusty Coffee

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned these characters, but I don't. **

"Ah Neal!"  
Peter's voice rang out behind Neal. He turned around, clutching the cup full of the FBI's disgusting coffee. He discreetly double-checked his hand was covered by the suit jacket he wore, which was intentionally a size too big.  
"Wow, you lost a lot of weight since last night!" Peter joked, pulling the jacket up to display Neal's apparent weight-loss.  
A flare of panic went off inside Neal, and he froze, waiting until Peter released his clothes.  
When Peter did let go, grinning like a clueless idiot, Neal struggled to regain his composure for a second. He slapped on a huge smile, laughing at Peter's joke, and took a nervous gulp from his coffee. The taste made him gag, and he ended up choking on it. Neal started coughing, and Peter thumped him on the back, half laughing and half concerned.  
"Y'alright?" he asked. Neal nodded, unable to speak from the foul liquid taste filling his nostrils. He took his white coffee cup and carried it back to the conference room, where his colleagues were animatedly discussing the case. His mind wandered after a few minutes, back to last night. The eerie way the pain had silenced the voice in his head was beginning to agitate him. He was immensely relieved the voice had gone, before Neal ended up contemplating something.. unthinkable, but with every tick of the clock, every minute that skittered past, the murmur of angry self-doubt was coming back. In his days of conning, the constant adrenaline running through his veins kept it sated, but now, working with the FBI, his days seemed mundane. The constant reminders from Mozzie weren't exactly helpful, either.

"And how do you think the forger got into the gallery, Neal? What's your theory?"  
Neal jerked back to reality to find everyone in the room staring at him. It took a second for Peter's question to process.  
"Ahh, um, well, maybe, he, um, used the, um, back entrance?"  
Peter raised his eyebrows and smiled.  
"Ah. Good theory Caffrey.."  
"Yeah! The back entrance, and, um, the police didn't check because.. gloves? And.."  
"Neal."  
"Yeah?"  
"It's a good theory. Or, at least, it would be, if the gallery had a back entrance."

"Oh."  
Neal swallowed sheepishly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously, and surveyed the people around him. Peter, stood a few meters away, had his head cocked to the side and was looking inquiringly at him. Diana was sat across from him, eyebrows raised, and Jones' brow was furrowed.  
"Zoned out for a while there, huh?"  
"Yeah." Neal replied, with a strained laugh.  
"Well Neal, for some of us, this is a living. By bringing in the bad guys, we put food on our tables. To you, it might be, I don't know, a get out of jail free card, and I'm sure you'd much rather be painting your _forgeries_, or drinking your goddamn _wine_, but back here in the real world, even the mortgage fraud cases mean something to us, because with every case that seems boring and pointless to you, we actually help someone. You could at least pretend to respect that."  
An awkward silence followed Peter's scolding. Neal nodded, pulling one of the case files towards him, and began to skim through it.  
"Maybe the forger used a photograph to capture the lighting of the painting.."  
Diana's theory once again drifted into a murmur in Neal's mind. He was humiliated by Peter's telling off, and under the table, his hand was clenched in a fist, the cuts tingling.

_You deserved that telling off.  
Only smart people can let their minds drift, and that is most certainly not you. Even a plausible theory escapes you. It's a good job Ellen isn't still here, because she'd be so ashamed of you right now. Useless. That's you in a nutshell. Got caught being a criminal, and now you can't even be the good guy. Just another thing to add to the ever increasing list of things Neal Caffrey is incapable of accomplishing._

Sipping his rusty-tasting coffee, Peter's eyes wandered back to Caffrey. He was frowning at the corner of the file, his hand clenched under the desk, and he'd been on the same page for quite a while now.

"Neal."

For the second time that day, Neal snapped out of his stupor.  
"Yeah?"  
"Y'alright?"  
"Yeah."  
Neal flashed his prize winning smile, and threw himself back into the discussion. He seemed fine now, but Peter kept studying at the man for a few more minutes. The nagging worry had returned to his mind, and when he tore his gaze away, it was harder to suppress.

* * *

When the team all agreed on a theory and assignments had been issued, Neal got out of there as fast as he could without running. He managed to walk at a normal pace to the elevator, but upon stepping into it his composure slipped a little. He took a calming breath, in a futile attempt at calming his racing heart, and stabbed at the rarely busy 7th floor button. It took a lot not to sprint out of the elevator when it finally arrived, and Neal relished the openness of the free space of the floor. He headed to the men's room, locked himself in a stall, and slumped down against it, hyperventilating a little bit. He had no idea why he was so jumpy today. After his second skip from reality, it was difficult to participate in the conversation as he could barely hear through the rushing of blood through his ears. He was on the verge of a panic attack, his forehead breaking out in a sweat.  
He took off his jacket, which suddenly seemed to engulf him, and bowed his head, clutching his hair in his hands.  
"Get it together, Caffrey." he whispered to himself, shaking his head. Tremors were railing through his hands, the blue veins exposed clearly. He exhaled deeply, took a few cleansing breaths, donned his blazer again, and walked slowly out of the stall. He left the bathroom with a smile that masked everything that he had just experienced in the bathroom, and as the door swung shut, he silently vowed no one would know about the anguish he was twisting round and around in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3! Leave reviews! :3**

**Disclaimer: Me no owny these characteries :P**

Agent Peter Burke was sat alone in the conference room, staring out of the glass windows and at the back of his consultant Neal Caffrey's dark brown hair. He was worried. In the past few weeks, since Neal had zoned out that day in the conference room and then disappeared down the elevator after the consult, he had been acting very erratically. He was over-excited for the first few days. That hadn't raised any alarms, as the man tended to be very hyper-active at times, but he had been overly smiley and eager to prove his worth. But after a sharp word from Peter, now his mood had changed to the other extreme; a moody depression. Jones had laughed and said something about Caffrey replacing food with coffee. Peter had laughed it off at the time, but now he was starting to get concerned. Neal had always been lanky, but there was always a point where he would sneak into the shared fridge for the FBI lackies, and much to the indignation of the victim, steal their lunch. But in the last few days, the high-pitched complaints had been strangely quiet. Peter never saw Neal eating anything anymore, just consuming cup after cup of metallic coffee. His eyes were ringed with dark smudges, which wasn't surprising; the kid swallowed so much caffeine, it was surprising he wasn't still wired the next morning. He had cut down a lot on playfully provoking his colleagues, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but Peter felt slightly nostalgic; in a sense, he missed combing through the reports filled against his C.I, as it was a reminder that all was good in the shadowy leashed world of Neal Caffrey.

Neal turned his head, and caught Peter staring intently at him. Peter beckoned him over.

"Neal! Jones, Diana and I were planning on going to dinner, to celebrate the case closing. Care to join us?"

"Cases get closed every day Peter. What's so special about this one? What's your motive?"

"Not everything has an agenda, Neal. There doesn't have to be a reason for a man to ask his colleagues out to dinner."

"You hate going to dinner with me."

"Well, as long as you refrain from anything in the shadows of the law, then we won't have a problem, will we Neal?" snapped Burke through gritted teeth. Neal flashed his smile, a ghost of his normal sunshine smirk, but a smile, irregardless. Peter blew out an exasperated breath, to hide his relief. Maybe Neal was returning to normal.

Neal wasn't stupid. He knew exactly why Peter was so suspicious. His behaviour, which contrary to the self-hatred inside of him, was not a pathetic cry at attention, but a pathetic attempt at adrenaline. At the last, and worst day of his manic happiness, Neal hadn't eaten in three or four days, had consumed a lot of coffee, and the events of the night before were keeping him alert. Peter could always tell when Neal was depressed - it was just his skill. So instead, Neal went to the other extreme; he acted as insanely happy to smokescreen his inner numb sadness. But it was hard, when he got home. So the night before the manic day, Neal had finally given into his inner curiosity. He bought a disposable razor from the nearest store, and took it home with him. After he Mozzie-freed the room, he sat in his favourite spot, with the fading New York sunset dancing on his face, took out the razor and stared at it for a while. Just stared. And then, he took off his dress shoe, with the little heel, and he smashed it, against the razor, as hard as he could. Replacing his shoe, Neal salvaged one of the shiny metal blades from the plastic, rolled up his white sleeve, and held the blade against his wrist. He imagined tearing through the skin at that moment, until he reached the blue vein underneath the skin. He imagined how the blood would spurt across the room, how the colour would drain out of his cheeks. He saw everyone he ever loved hear about his death on the news, and he watched in silent horror as they began to laugh. Huge peals of laughter, until tears of amusement streamed down their faces. And as he saw this, Neal barely noticed his fist clench around the metal, and as he dragged it across the delicate skin of his wrist, again and again, he felt all the tension, the worry and the sadness drain away along with the deep red blood. That night, Neal lost himself in the first time cutter's adrenaline, and that was what provoked the hypermedia of the next day. The memory alone was the only thing that kept his starving, sleep-deprived body fuelled.

But the toll caught up on Neal. He barely caught an hour of sleep every night, and every time he saw food, his appetite died. He felt so cold, that he downed endless cups of tasteless coffee to warm him up. He knew people in the FBI were beginning to get concerned, when he stayed later than any of them, and arrived still earlier than they could. But every time Neal thought about that worry, he saw them laughing, at his demise from suicide, and the sadness that lingered inside him seemed to be his only worthy companion.

Neal, Diana, Jones and Peter sat in the restaurant that Peter had taken them to. Diana and Jones were halfway through their meals, Peter had already finished his. He was staring at Neal, who was pushing food around the expensive china plate with the shiny silver fork with a look of distaste on his youthful face.

"You gonna eat that food, or mess with it all night?" snapped Peter, patting the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin. Neal shot an amused glance at Peter.

"I'm just not hungry Peter" he explained, dropping the fork with a clatter. He was careful to conceal the tremors rattling though his fingers as he did so.

Diana raised her eyebrows, and Jones and her watched Peter interestedly for his reaction. His brow screwed up with suspicion.

"Do you ever eat?" Diana laughed, pushing a morsel of salad through her lips.

Neal gave her a smirk.

"Of course I do Diana. You see, if I never ate, then I wouldn't be here, would I?"

"Unless you're a member of the undead," she retorted, biting her lip.

Neal laughed and snapped his teeth playfully at her, receiving a condescending look from her, and a little laugh from Jones.

"You gotta little something on your face there Diana" he said, reaching forward and caressing her face flirtatiously. She squirmed uncomfortably at his antics, trying to get away from his touch.

"Hey Neal, is that blood on your sleeve?" Peter suddenly asked.

Neal's bright blue eyes flashed with anxiety. He quickly returned to the proper posture in his seat, and seemed to withdraw into himself.

"Oh, I must have just nicked myself on something. It's fine Peter" Neal quietly said.

"Oh? Well, let me see.."

"No that's really alright.."

"Just let me see I'll just.."

"Peter.."

"..See if it needs to be checked out.."

"Peter! I said, it's _fine_!" Neal snapped, yanking his arm away from Peter's grasp.

"It's a scratch"

"Alright" Peter said, raising his arms in a surrendering gesture.

"Excuse me," Neal managed through gritted teeth. He threw his napkin down on his hardly touched food, stood up, and walked away stiffly in the direction of the men's room, leaving behind a very confused Diana and Jones, and an increasingly worried Peter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4! This wasn't originally going to be so fast, but I don't want the idea to go stale, so it's happening. Enjoy, and review? :3**_  
_

**Disclaimer: You know le drill :3**

_Ringg ringg_

Peter groaned, turning away from the intrusive noise.

_Ringg ringg_

Peter pulled his pillow from under his head and slapped it across his face.

_Ringg ringg_

The barely muffled noise insistently penetrated Peter's sleepy stupor. He sighed deeply, removing the pillow, glanced at the alarm clock, which read _3:43 _and grabbed the phone from the nightstand.

"Yes?" he yawned.

"Is this Mr Burke?"

The unfamiliar voice properly roused Peter. He sat up straight in his bed, frowning.

"Yes? Who is this?"

"Sorry to bother you at such a late hour Mr Burke, but you're down as the emergency contact for one _Neal Caffrey.."_

A sick dread filled Peter. He swallowed, but his throat was suddenly too dry to produce any saliva.

"What's going on?" he snapped down the phone, trying to mask his worry.

"Well, it appears Mr Caffrey has been involved in a bar fight. He's at St. Elizabeths.."

"Thank you," he muttered down the phone. In a daze, he pulled on a blue shirt and brown pants, and a tie, pushed his phone into his back pocket, and grabbed his badge and gun. He crept downstairs, and out of the door.

"I'm looking for Neal Caffrey.." he stated to the receptionist. She pecked delicately on the computer keyboard.

"He's in the ER at the minute sir," she informed him. He nodded gratefully, and headed along the corridor, pushing open the double doors, and looking for Neal.

He found his partner behind a curtain.

"Shit Neal.." he muttered, taking in the man in front of him.

Neal's shirt was cut open, exposing his bony chest. There was bruises all across his delicate rib bones. A bloody laceration lined his scalp, gently weeping, and small shallow cuts were present across his head. One of his eyes were horribly swelled, and there was a dressing across his nose, which was presumably broken. Neal was breathing raggedly, his eyes glazed and unfocused, drifting in and out of sleep. But the thing that horrified Burke most weren't his partner's vast array of injuries. The EMT's had obviously removed his blazer, and without it, his bony arms were exposed. His right wrist was clean, but his left one was sporting hundreds of spidery cuts, deep red against the ivory of his skin and the regal blue of his veins. The cuts were self-inflicted, Peter knew that. And just knowing that the young man was carrying so much pain, so much inner torment, that it made him resort to.. _this_..

Peter's eyes began to fill, and he rubbed them furiously, inhaling deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to be strong. He needed to keep it together, for Neal's sake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Short chapter, I know, but I wanted to update as soon as possible, and I thought that this moment between Neal and Peter deserved its own chapter. All your feedback is greatly appreciated :3**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, sadly. **

"Mmmmmmm"

Neal stirred in his sleep, opening his eyes slightly. Through the thick dull fog engulfing his mind, he could see Peter.

Peter's face looked like it had aged a decade. His eyes were filled with sadness and worry, and his brown eyes were gazing straight into Neal's hazy ones. Peter was sad, and that made Neal sad. That's all Neal was capable of processing. Peter was sad, so Neal was sad. All Neal wanted was to make it better, let words slip from his silver tongue until that haunted expression left Peter's hooded eyes. He tried to raise an arm, to put it on Peter's shoulder, but his limbs felt like lead, and much to his dismay, a wave of pain swept him away into dimly lit unconsciousness.

"Neal? Neal?"

Neal opened his glazed eyes. Peter's face was looming above him. Neal smiled, a sweet smile filled with innocence. It didn't hide anything, it was simply a response of joy to seeing the person he trusted the most in all the world. And in response to that, the worry and the pain disappeared from Peter's face in a second. He leaned down and hugged Neal as tight as he could. He had spent the last hour waiting desperately for Neal to open his eyes, growing more worried every second Neal remained sleeping. And when his partner finally complied, when he raised his lids and gazed at Peter with those baby blue eyes, eyes that Peter had feared would never glean with mischief, or twinkle with delight ever again. The smile had pushed him over the edge, and as he hugged Neal, he felt his eyes begin to grow damp.

Peter released Neal, sniffing and wiping his eyes discreetly. Neal began to laugh from the bed, and Peter looked over inquiringly.

"Neal..?"

"Woooww, they have some good meds here," he slurred slightly. Peter rolled his eyes to the heavens and back again, resulting in a chuckle from Neal. He took a seat in the plastic chair next to Neal's bed, and slumped back, studying his C.I.

"Aren't stars amazing," he murmured, gazing delightedly onto the white ceiling of the hospital room.

"M dad and I, we used to look at th-stars," he went on, his eyes gleaming. Peter sat up, interested. Whenever he had tried to quiz Neal on his family, the young con-man had neatly evaded his questions, but now, he seemed eager to spill.

"Oh ya? Where'd you go?" Peter asked.

"All over. All over Peter. Wherever there were stars, there was us. Us, we were always there. We used to always go.." Neal drifted off, his face turning sad. He seemed to withdraw back into himself. Peter slapped the boy on the shoulder.

"Go to sleep, Neal"

And Neal did.

When Neal roused again, he was a lot more aware. He squirmed uncomfortably in the hospital bed, and tried to get up several times. His anklet was firmly clasped back onto his leg, just in case, but the only thing that would make him settle were Peter's soothing words.

On the last day of Neal's stay, Peter took a deep breath.

"Neal, when you were first admitted.. I saw your arm,"

Neal's eyes widened in shock. He quickly wiped his face of all emotion, but Peter caught the brief flash.

"It's nothing Peter. Really. Just a few scratches. It's stupid really."

Neal's words were void of all feeling. Peter sat down next to him as he fixed his tie.

"It looked a lot more than a few scratches Neal"

Neal didn't answer, his eyes colder than blue ice.

"Look Neal, I'm not going to force you to talk about it. I'm not going to force you to stop, or send you to a psych assessor. But when you're ready, all I'm asking is that you come to me, instead of doing what you're doing"

With that Peter stood up.

"I'll be waiting outside. Hurry"

Peter headed over to the door. While he was shutting it, a muffled "Thank you Peter." emitted from Neal's side of the room. Peter turned, and Neal was staring at him with those intense blue eyes, filled with gratitude and nerves. But in a second, it was gone, and Neal returned to tying his shoes with a blank expression. Peter nodded, and left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Look, I know I suck at writing. At tenses and grammar. But I've read over this a thousand times, and I can't see where the tense complaint is coming from. If you really have to, at least point it out to me. Thank you.**

**DC: don't own. **

"Neal? _Neal!_"

Peter hammered on Neal's door, yelling desperately, and willing Neal to answer with every bone in his body. He'd tried calling, sending Mozzie round, calling from El's phone, calling from the office, but Neal wouldn't pick up. He'd been angry at first. The felon had returned after a few days of recovery at June's, but he'd been unenthusiastic, unwilling to contribute and just looked bored and annoyed. After an hour of this, Peter had snapped and yelled at Neal, calling him incompetent and useless. Normally this would amuse the con man, but this time, he calmly waited until the end of Peter's rant, coldly asked "are you finished?" and when Peter yelled at him to get out, he went. He went, all right. Out of the building, and back to June's. Peter had been fuming. He'd called Neal, and left angry messages. But when there was no answer from any method he tried, he'd began to get worried. Guilt was twisting in his gut as he kicked in the wooden door and went to find Neal.

"Oh no. Oh no. Neal oh no. Nonono."

Peter dropped to his knees by the side of a very pale Neal. Blood was dripping down both of his wrists, like streams, and onto the floor. His eyes were barely open; only a slit of dull colour was visible through the narrowed lids. Peter dropped his gun and yanked off his jacket, and grabbed Neal. He had evaluated the injuries as soon as he saw them, and he knew they wouldn't be life threatening. So he just held Neal. He held Neal as tightly as he could, and when he hugged Peter back weakly, Peter found himself in tears.

"I'm sorry Neal. I'm sorry." Peter murmured. Neal's head, which had been lolling backwards in a gruesome fashion, fell forwards on to Peter's shoulder, and he nuzzled against Peter's neck.

"I wasn't supposed to disappoint you." Neal whispered, in a barely audible tone.

"Neal Caffrey, you've never disappointed me a day in your life. No even when you were a con, not when I caught you, and especially not now you're my partner!" Peter exclaimed. He felt Neal's mouth curve up into a weak smile.

"You mean that?"

"Yes Neal. I mean it."

Peter locked his hands in the boy's messy hair, holding the lanky con man as tight as possible.

"Don't leave me." Neal whispered into Peter's neck. Peter's eyes filled, and he blinked furiously.

"I will never leave you Neal." he choked. "Never."


	7. Chapter 7 (Final Chapter)

**Sorry it took so long to update! But here it is, the final chapter! It's not as comfort based as the last chapter, because I didn't want the comfort bounds to become out of character, if you know what I mean. Anyway, unbeta'd, so any mistakes are entirely mine! All your reviews are so appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: don't own :c **

"Peter?"

Neal jerked awake, the tendrils of a dark dream slipping away from his mind. The memories of last night flooded back to him. He had fallen asleep in Peter's comforting embrace, lulled into the first peaceful sleep in weeks. But Peter was gone now.

The bright light glaring into the room was making Neal squint, and he raised his arms to try and block it, wincing as he cracked the layer of blood dried across his forearms. He could barely see anything through the sun shining through the windows.

Neal felt the bed sag down next to him. He turned his head, spots dancing in his vision, and saw Peter.

"I thought you'd have left."

Peter smiled.

"Well, someone's gotta take you to work, Caffrey."

Peter handed him a cup of hot coffee, and a wet towel.

"Clean yourself up, and get that down you." he gently commanded.

Neal smiled gratefully, swigging the warm beverage, and handed it back to Peter while he hauled himself up. He turned away from Peter whilst cleaning the blood from his arm, and dropped the towel under the bed rather than give it back to Peter. He felt somewhat ashamed that Peter had found him in the state he was in last night, as he had promised himself not to break down in front of Peter and add to his stress.

Neal got dressed quickly, and Him and Peter walked to Peter's car in silence. Peter cleared his throat.

"Look Neal. I just want you to know that it's not your fault Hughes has been obsessing over our case files. He's under the yearly inspection by what we like to call the Super Hughes, and when he's stressed.. Well, he likes to take it out on us. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry I kinda blamed it on you. You're an asset to the White Collar division, and a valued team member to m.. all of us. I know you've been having a hard time with Kate's death, but if you ever wanna talk.."

"I'll be sure to talk to Elizabeth." Neal finished for him, laughing. A slow grin spread across Peter's face, and he sighed in relief. Neal continued to laugh at Peter for a few more minutes.

"Peter, I just want you to know, I appreciate it. I know that was probably the most awkward situation you've ever experienced, and that was definitely not easy for you to say."

Peter nodded, and they both climbed into the car.

"Hey, I forgot to ask you. El wanted to me to ask you if you wanted to come to dinner tonight."

"How could I pass up on Peter Burke's infamous pot roast." Neal smirked. Peter groaned.

"I guess that means I'm cooking tonight then."

Neal slapped him on the back, laughing.

"I guess it does buddy, I guess it does."

The ride back to the office was filled with the usual banter. Neal relished in Peter not bringing up last night. He had meant what he said, he really did appreciate Peter's apology. For the first time since Kate died, Neal felt... needed. And for the first time, the little voice in his head that whispered all his insecurities.. it was gone.


End file.
